


safer space

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [58]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Disabled Character, Emotion Without Plot, M/M, Mentally Ill Character, No seriously a lot, Steve has a lot of FEELINGS, Unrepentant Adoration, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's funny how things go from known but unimportant to - well, not mattering, but having more meaning than they used to. Steve's never not <i>known</i> that Bucky's gorgeous, but the knowledge ran from a "the sky is blue, the grass is green" kind of knowing to, at most, a kind of wistful envy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	safer space

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it. 
> 
> This was on a Hurt/Comfort Bingo prompt: "amnesia"; it's also a couple hundred words of absolutely unrepentent Steve-Feelings. Seriously.

It's funny how things go from known but unimportant to - well, not mattering, but having more meaning than they used to. Steve's never not _known_ that Bucky's gorgeous, but the knowledge ran from a "the sky is blue, the grass is green" kind of knowing to, at most, a kind of wistful envy. 

Or occasionally mild disbelief when Bucky accused him of using big blue eyes to get something or manage someone, given if that wasn't, not even just pot calling kettle, but . . . Steve's metaphors fail him, something a lot worse than pot calling kettle, then Steve didn't know what it was. 

It'd been something true, something known, and something taken for granted. Even on the Front. 

Now, Steve doesn't take a lot for granted, doesn't really dare, and it's . . .something else. Not something that _matters_ , that's not the right word, but he can't think what it is. Something he notices, something there. Something he holds at arms' length a little, even. They call it "objectification" for a reason, and it's too simple, and it's way too close - too easy for all the parts of Bucky's mind that want the world to fit into the boxes HYDRA made for him to decide _that's_ the part that matters, that's the only reason. For anything. For everything. He's too used to being some _thing_ used for a purpose. It's dangerous.

Trade violence for sex, but it's still the same core, a game of bodies used as empty shells. And Steve would rather cut off _his_ hand and it wouldn't be true, anyway. That's not the part that matters. Not at all. It only matters because it's part of Bucky, because it's a thing that's true. It's only important because it's him. 

So Steve keeps the thoughts to himself. It's counterintuitive, a bit. And it's an almost unsettling demonstration at just how much people link beauty and virtue and worth, so that you could make a homily out of it and preach. But it's not difficult, really, to put noticing away. To keep it out of mind. 

He saves up his noticing for the times when he's awake and Bucky's asleep, when it can't do any harm. It keeps company with looking for signs pain and hunger that Bucky's ignoring might be leaving, and with wondering about the horror stories scars and postures tell. 

And it keeps company with the awe that's still there, always, first that Bucky's here at all and second that he can lie here asleep and not care that Steve's here awake. That something down deep and written in bone can believe that if Steve's here it's safe and there's nothing to pay. 

Here, now, Steve's not going to forget what matters, couldn't if both their lives depended on it, and so here and now it's safe to think about how incredibly beautiful his best friend is. And how everything written on him in scars just makes that more-so, makes him more-so.

And lord Christ how fucking grateful Steve is that he came back, so that it's something Steve can see instead of having to remember. That he could forget and learn it all over again if he had to. And that he can believe there'll come a point when he can say it out loud, watch Bucky try to deflect and deny and get glared at for throwing out a compliment where he can't duck. When he can point out not just his eyes but the way the skin around them crinkles up when (rarely, now, but still when) Bucky smiles, or the boneless, uncoordinated grace in the way he takes up space in a sprawl. The shape and movement of his hands - both of them - or the curve of his neck when he tilts his head. The way his voice sounds, his mouth shapes words.

Steve can believe, now, that someday he'll be able to say that, to talk about that. And he is unendingly grateful, because that's an honest-to-God miracle, that's a gift. And Steve's done taking anything for granted. 

Some days he can't believe there won't be a price. But that's fine. He'll pay it. It's only fair. 

It's gotten a bit colder in the room by the time he's actually drowsy, and Steve absently pulls the extra blanket at the foot of the bed up over Bucky's sleeping shape before he puts his own head down and closes his eyes.


End file.
